Page 30 of One Last Encore

Beck wasn’t keeping track either.

He wasn’t drinking recklessly, just steadily. Casually. Like it was part of the rhythm of the night. His glass was never empty for long, and when the bartender poured him another without asking, he didn’t hesitate, just lifted it to his lips as if it were second nature.

He didn’t seem drunk. His laughter was still easy, his voice smooth. But there was something about how he held his glass, the way his fingers curled around it a little too comfortably, that made her pause.

At some point, the world took on a pleasantly hazy glow, like everything had been dipped in a dreamy filter. The music wrapped around her, sinking into her bones and making everything feel looser, lighter, like she’d just discovered that this was what freedom felt like. It was weird to be having this much fun without Eden or Sylvia, but tonight felt... different.

She wasn’t thinking about ballet or rehearsals. She was only thinking about the way Beck’s voice wrapped around her like warm velvet, the way his laugh sent a thrill through her, and the way her heart did a stupid little flip every time his arm brushed against hers.

This was dangerous. Very,verydangerous.

She felt a small thud against her foot and glanced down to see an eight ball from the nearby pool table had rolled into her. She leaned over, picked it up, and held it out to Beck with a small grin before handing it off to the flustered patron who had dropped it.

"You play?" she asked, a teasing glint in her eye.

"Are you challenging me?" Beck replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe I am," she said with a shrug.

"What are the stakes?" he asked, leaning in, his gaze locking onto hers.

"Another outing?" she blurted, way too quickly. Her brain caught up to her words a second too late, but there was no taking them back now. The idea of spending more time with him sent a flutter through her chest that she definitely wasn’t okay with. But it also triggered a warning in her mind.

She hesitated, trying to get a grip. Did she actually want another outing? Her body screamed yes, but her brain was waving a flurry of red flags. She’d spent most of her adult life avoiding relationships, they were too distracting, too risky. And yet, here she was, practically throwing caution to the wind. She blamed the wine.

"If I win," she said, voice slow, "we keep things strictly professional. No more outings."

Beck tilted his head, considering. "And if I win?"

She met his gaze head-on. "If you win, we go on another outing."

His lips twitched, his amusement barely contained. "So, just so I’m clear–if you win, I leave you alone. And if I win, you willingly spend more time with me?"

She narrowed her eyes at his expression, sensing the smug undertone. "Yes," she said firmly, willing herself to sound confident.

“Is that what you really want, princess?"

No. Absolutely not."Yes," she said anyway, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her doubt.

"Okay, whatever you say." He shrugged, far too nonchalant, and that irritated her more than it should have.

Where was the pushback? The cocky retort? The resistance? He was supposed to act at least a little disappointed, maybe even try to talk her out of it. Instead, he just accepted it like he already knew exactly how this was going to end.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. Fine. Whatever. She’d made the bet, and she was going to win.

He led her to the pool table, grabbed two pool sticks from the wall, and handed one to her. As he set up the balls in a neat triangle, he glanced up with an easy grin. "Go ahead and break."

She leaned over, lined up her shot, and, with a quick movement, sent the balls scattering across the table, a few dropping neatly into the pockets.

As they took turns shooting, Beck chatted casually, asking about her classes, her friends, and her life outside the dance studio. She kept her responses short at first, but somehow, against her better judgment, she started easing into theconversation. She found herself talking about Eden and Sylvia, about her favorite classes, even laughing at one of his gig stories.

She was ahead by four points. Which, normally, would have felt great. But instead of feeling pleased, she was oddly annoyed.

He wasn’t eventrying. His shots were careless, his stance lazy, and it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t taking the game seriously. Instead, he was watching her. Talking. Smirking. Like the game itself didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care if he lost.

Her grip on the pool stick tightened. Did he not want to win? What kind of fool turned down the opportunity to bask in her reluctant, begrudging company?

Good, she told herself. It was for the best. She didn’t need the distraction, especially not one with a face that looked like it had been chiseled by a deity with entirely too much free time.

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